Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake

An Easter Rhyme

Easter Monday in the city -
                 Rattle, rattle, rumble, rush;
Tom and Jerry, Nell and Kitty,
                 All the down-the-harbour “push,”
Little thought have they, or pity,
                 For a wanderer from the bush.

Shuffle, feet, a merry measure,
                 Hurry, Jack and find your Jill,
Let her - if it give her pleasure -
                 Flaunt her furbelow and frill,
Kiss her while you have the leisure,
                 For tomorrow brings the mill.

Go ye down the harbour, winding
                 ‘Mid the eucalypts and fern,
Respite from your troubles finding,
                 Kiss her, till her pale cheeks burn,
For to-morrow will the grinding
                 Mill-stones of the city turn.

Stunted figures, sallow faces,
                 Sad girls striving to be gay
In their cheap sateens and laces.
                 Ah! how different ‘tis to-day
Where they’re going to the races -
                 Yonder - up Monaro way!

Light mist flecks the Murrumbidgee’s
                 Bosom with a silver stain,
On the trembling wire bridge is
                 Perched a single long legged crane,
While the yellow, slaty ridges
                 Sweep up proudly from the plain.

Somebody is after horses -
                 Donald, Charlie or young Mac -
Suddenly his arm he tosses,
                 Presently you’ll hear the crack,
As the symbol of the cross is
                 Made on ‘Possum’s steaming back.

Stirling first! the Masher follows,
                 Ly-ee-moon and old Trump Card,
Helter skelter through the shallows
                 Of the willow-shaded ford,
Up the lane and past the “gallows,”
                 Driven panting to the yard.

In the homestead, what a clatter;
                 Habits black and habits blue,
Full a dozen red lips patter:
                 “Who is going to ride with who?”
Mixing sandwiches and chatter,
                 Gloves to button, hair to “do,”

Horses stamp and stirrups jingle,
                 “Dash the filly! won’t she wait?”
Voices, bass and treble, mingle,
                 “Look sharp, May, or we’ll be late;”
How the pulses leap and tingle
                 As you lift her featherweight!

At the thought the heart beats quicker
                 Than an old Bohemian’s should,
Beating like my battered ticker
                 (Pawned this time, I fear, for good).
Bah! I’ll go and have a liquor
                 With the genial “Jimmy Wood.”